
Dear Uncle B,
When the Great Library at Old Chicago was found I guess it was like about 1,000 years after the End of the World? I dunno. It was way before my time. But it was quite the sensation, so I hear. Well, I mean, among The Reading anyways. Not that you can like really blame folks who have decided to condemn it. Technically, reading did once get us all into a metric shit-ton of trouble.
'Tis the season for list making, and since everyone on the Internets is doing it, so will I. Here's an ultimate backstage tour rider compiled from some ultimate backstage tour riders.
Some awesome ice cubes (Foo Fighters)
A really good salad (Foo Fighters)
"Some crackers and maybe some dips. Hummus and taramasalata. Today the world, tamarasalata." (Iggy Pop)
Two (2) seven-passenger Cadillac limousines (air-conditioned if possible), with chauffeurs (the Beatles)
White room, white flowers, white tables, white drapes, white candies, white couches (J. Lo)
It's rumored that Billy Corgan had a rule that his banddudes were not allowed to have sex on the day of a show, and for good reason—letting go of that load means lower energy levels for guys. Women, on the other hand, have reported feeling more energized and creative postorgasm. A certain Chicago musician inspires lyrics by jumping up and down for hours while listening to mixes through headphones, thus inducing the production of endorphins, which boost creativity. "It is conducive to vivid image creation," he says. Similarly, my song ideas come to me while I'm walking and nowhere near my instruments. That makes sense, I guess—the scientists say that your brain chemistry changes after you walk two miles.
Fear not, small grasshoppers! You shall stand strong in the holiday chaos! And you can give the gift that keeps on giving. You will give unto the world . . . the Mixtape. It will cost nothing but your soul.

A million years ago, I saw Cat Power for the first time at Schubas. At the time, I was deep in the throes of 90s indie rock—probably because it was the 90s. I was fresh out of college, armed with my unrealistic dreams and the whole world sprawled out before me . . . unveiling a fascinating, shimmering cloud of doom full of twentysomething disappointments. My roommate and I shared a tiny apartment that we cleaned every other . . . never, and we basically existed on top of each other as we haphazardly navigated our freshman year of life. The only thing that held any shred of certainty was that a dirty, fingerprinted, scratched-as-fuck copy of Cat Power’s Moon Pix was on constant rotation in the CD player.